


Misbeliefs

by followthattardis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Fluff, Human Castiel, Humor, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Sam Ships It, no regrets, this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthattardis/pseuds/followthattardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to die,” Castiel says. “Please let me die.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misbeliefs

“I want to die,” Castiel says. “Please let me die.”

Dean sighs and drops a white, round tablet into a glass of water, watching it bubble and dissolve.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Stop calling me that,” Castiel grouses. “It’s irritating and inaccurate.”

“A trench-coated baby,” Dean repeats willfully. He grabs the glass from the table and walks over to where Castiel lies all curled up and wallowing in self-misery.

“Here, drink it.”

Castiel’s face emerges from where it’s been smushed into a pillow, and he eyes the proffered glass with distrust.

“What is that?”

“It’s poison. Since you want to die so badly.”

Seeing Castiel’s unsure expression, Dean can’t help but roll his eyes.

“Not  _really_ , you dimwit.”

“You see what’s happening? It’s affecting my ability to detect sarcasm.”

“Dude, you never even had that ability in the first place. Sit up.”

When all he gets in response is a pained grunt, Dean plunks himself down on the couch next to Cas and nudges him with his elbow.

“C’mon. Don’t make me force it down your gullet.”

The threat doesn’t seem to make any impression. Castiel remains determined not to cooperate, folding in on himself like a pocket knife and groaning into his hands.

“How do humans take it? It’s unbearable.”

“Don’t be a drama queen. It’s just a headache.”

“It’s torture,” Castiel laments. “It’s worse than Hell. And I’ve  _been_  to Hell.”

“No shit,” Dean scoffs. “Me too, remember? Just drink the goddamn aspirin.”

The name of the medicine seems to do the trick, since Castiel finally heaves himself up to a semi-sitting position.

“Acetylsalicylic acid is said to be one of the most effective painkillers,” he admits, taking the glass from Dean’s hands.

“It does wonders for a hangover,” Dean informs him brightly. “Now, bottoms up.”

Cas chugs the whole thing in one go and passes the glass back to Dean.

He licks his lips and frowns.

“It didn’t help. I still feel awful.”

“You’re doing it on purpose,” Dean groans. “You have the full name of the drug memorized, for fuck’s sake. I’ll bet my entire vintage porn collection you know the exact amount of time it takes for it to start working.”

“Please don’t talk so loud,” Castiel pleads pitifully, flopping back down on the couch. “It’s only making it worse.”

“You’re completely insufferable as a human,” Dean says, standing up.

“I’m starting to wonder how come humans aren’t irritable by default. With having to constantly endure this kind of physical hardships it would be completely understandable.”

“It’s not that bad, really.”

After being given a spectacular side-eye, Dean reconsiders that statement.

“Well, it is. It sucks ass. A lot. But we can’t do shit about it, so we just get used to it.”

He shrugs and smiles crookedly, though with an unmistakable air of sympathy. “You will too.”

Castiel doesn’t seem too sure about it, but he gives a silent nod.

“Now, try to doze off, okay?” Dean advises, easily slipping into the tone of a concerned parent. “The aspirin should kick in soon.”

Cas makes a noncommittal “hmmmmm” sound and wraps himself in a blanket he’d tossed away earlier, tugging it all the way up to his chin. It’s like he’s  _asking_  for another baby joke, but Dean decides to let it go this time. Even though he adores annoying and provoking Cas, he’s not  _that_  big of a jerk. He can torment him later. Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t feel genuinely sorry for the guy. He can’t imagine what it must be like to experience a heavy migraine for the first time in your life at the tender age of a few hundred million.

He’s starting to walk away when a hand grabs his wrist and holds him in place.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean’s lips stretch into a grin, totally ignoring the part where they’re supposed to ask his brain for permission first.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.”

He waits for Cas to let go of him, but the long fingers remain firmly clasped around his wrist.

“I mean it,” Cas insists. “Not just for the medicine, but for letting me stay here. You didn’t have to.”

“Cas, you should really go to sleep now because you’re talking nonsense.” Dean gently extricates himself from Cas’s hold and puts his hand away. “You know perfectly well that you can stay whenever you want, for however long you want.”

It’s bullshit, of course. Cas doesn’t “know perfectly well”, and he has every reason not to take being welcome in the bunker for granted. Dean offered him the same hospitality once, and Castiel accepted it only to be told to make himself scarce ten minutes later.

Dean knows he deserves every ounce of mistrust coming his way, but it doesn’t make it any easier to take.

“You still didn’t need to take me in, so thank you,” Cas repeats, unaware that he’s only twisting the knife deeper and deeper.

“Just go to sleep,” Dean says. He desperately needs to cauterize this conversation before he does something really stupid, like apologize again or admit he’s an idiot or ask Cas to stay and never leave.

This time Castiel obliges, letting his eyelids slide shut and nestling himself more comfortably under the blanket. Dean shakes his head fondly and leaves as quietly as he can, the empty glass still clutched in his hand.

“Dude,” Sam says.

Dean stops abruptly in the middle of the room and glances around.

Sam’s head pops up from behind the back of an armchair and his eyes lock with Dean’s.

“Have you been sitting here the entire time?” Dean asks indignantly. “What the hell, man?”

Sam looks at him like he’s just sprouted a second head.

“Dude.”

“What?” Dean has to check himself not to yell and settles on a stage whisper, sneaking a quick look at the couch where Cas is beginning to fall asleep.

“How did you even fit in that armchair without any body parts sticking out?” he adds, waving his hands around for better effect. It’s not that easy to convey annoyance when you have to keep your voice down.

“Dude,” Sam repeats.

“What?! What’s with the broken record?”

Sam shakes his head and sighs like he’s just been told he needs to explain the multiplication table to a math professor.

“ _Dude_. You two,” he jabs a finger at Dean, then over at Cas, “are so fucking married.”

Dean almost drops the glass he’s holding.

“Sam, I swear to god—”

“You shoulda seen yourself. You bickered like you had twenty years of wedded bliss to show for it.”

“ _Sam_.”

Sam lifts his gigantic hand to prevent any further protests.

“It’s just a simple scientific observation.”

“You can’t just say shit like that!. He’s my  _friend_ , and a  _dude_ —”

Sam snorts and throws one of the armchair pillows at Dean. No, really; he fucking  _launches a pillow at his face_. Dean grabs it, but doesn’t fling it back. That pillow is his only weapon right now, and Sam’s clearly not done talking.

“Yeah, ‘cause those are such insurmountable obstacles,” Sam says, like Dean’s really thick and needs to be told twice that two plus two equals four. “Maybe I should’ve recorded you guys, so you could see it for yourselves.”

Suddenly Dean has a terrifying vision of Sam lurking in the shadows, sneaking around with his phone in hand in hopes of catching another moment of their alleged conjugal felicity on camera.

“You do that and brother or not, I’ll rip your head off,” he threatens.

Sam looks disturbingly unimpressed, crossing his arms over his chest and sparing a moment to glance over at Castiel, who’s fast asleep by now.

“Screw it up,” he says, pointedly nodding his head in Cas’s direction, “and I’ll rip  _your_  head off.”

With that, Sam walks right out of the room (not neglecting to add a menacing “You think I’m joking, but I’m not” as he passes Dean on the way.) He pauses on the threshold and turns his head over his shoulder, giving Dean a conspiratorial look.

“It’s funny, because Marie was right.”

“Marie? What the hell does she got to do with—”

 _“Deastiel_.”

“YOU—”

Dean tosses the pillow after him, but when it flops pathetically on the floor, Sam is already gone.

Heaving a long, martyred sigh, Dean goes over to pick it up and put it away where it belongs. When he turns around, his eyes fall on Castiel, who’s still napping peacefully in blissful ignorance of the scene that has just played out next to him. Dean thinks maybe it’s a good thing he’s out like a light – at least the universe spared him Sam’s stupid teasing.

Because that’s all it was about, right? It’s not like Sam actually meant anything by it, he was just being a dick. And even if he did mean it, it doesn’t change the fact that it was totally misguided.

And unfounded.

And overall  _wrong_.

Friends banter. That’s normal. Sam has obviously watched one too many crappy tv drama and he’s seeing things that aren’t there. What’s the word –  _projecting_. Not to mention how he geeked out over that God-awful Supernatural musical. Dean suspects that’s what planted the idea in Sam’s mind in the first place.

There’s really,  _really_  nothing to it.

Satisfied with the impeccable logic of his reasoning, Dean marches out of the room and goes to the kitchen to prepare burgers for when Cas inevitably wakes up hungry.

To his dismay, he finds Sam already sitting there like a cat who ate the canary, his laptop open in front of him and fingers tapping away on the keyboard. Dean ostentatiously ignores him and dives his head into the fridge, beginning to hum under his breath as he takes out all the ingredients and lays them out on the counter.

If he looked up right then, he would notice the triumphant look on Sam’s face and tortured the reason for it out of him. But he doesn’t, and Sam is left to savor his victory in peace. His job is done here; there is no need to push any further.

He didn’t need to force his brother to admit anything. He just needed to make him start _thinking_ about it. With Cas living in the bunker permanently now, Sam is sure Dean can figure out the rest by himself soon enough.

And if Sam happens to write _Deastiel_ on the steamed up bathroom mirror from time to time, so that Dean will find it later – well.

He’s only human*.

 

~~*at the moment~~


End file.
